


Drifting

by cottonwoolsocks



Series: Whumptober 2019 [7]
Category: Sanders Sides (Web Series)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Desert Island, Desert Island Fic, Ficlet, Gen, but i wanted to post it as a single fic, only Logan is mentioned though, so here it is, this is sort of a prologue to 'Blueberry'
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-31
Updated: 2019-10-31
Packaged: 2021-01-15 17:54:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 277
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21257279
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cottonwoolsocks/pseuds/cottonwoolsocks
Summary: They were drifting, an infinite mass of water in every direction, their little raft the only thing keeping them afloat.





	Drifting

Drifting. 

They were drifting, drifting slowly, bobbing over the waves, each rise bringing a new wave of rolling nausea and each fall an uncomfortable throb in the collective headache.

They had drunk all the water, the six bottles between them, and it had been days, and they were still drifting.

Silence was hardly palpable, not with the constant sloshing of water all around them and their own breathing, but they missed the land, and its sounds. They missed the animals, the birds, the sound of cars lazily rolling by. Children and dogs, machinery and chatter. 

Now there was just water.

Water, everywhere, miles of it, endless and eternal. Water forever, water for always, just them and their little orange liferaft and each other.

They were huddled together, wrapped under blankets, thankful beyond belief for the tent-like roof over their heads. Logan had set up the roof as a raincatcher, but it hadn't rained, and it wouldn't rain, and so here there sat, with all the will for change but none of the means.

They told each other stories. Stories of when they were still at school, of their lives now, of things they had read or written or heard, anything to pass the time as the time wore on. At least, they hoped it did. It was hard to tell when every day was the same—just them, and the water, and the cold.

Drifting, drifting, drifting. In and out of sleep, here and there, hoping they'd wake up to the sound of a seagull or the grinding of their raft against shallow sand.

Bobbing slowly, meandering, as if undecided which way to go.

Drifting, drifting, drifting.

**Author's Note:**

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